Perpetual Notion
by Linda Greyson
Summary: After a setback, Mark is determined to avert what always comes next.


Perpetual Notion

Milton Hardcastle got up from his chair, stretched his back, then wandered to the den window. He was just in time to see McCormick walking back up the driveway. The kid's gait was slower than it had been when he'd headed out, but that was to be expected. He always left with a resolution in his set shoulders and returned with energy and spirits flagging. The younger man didn't look up at the window as he neared the house. From behind the glass, the judge watched him round the building and disappear from view.

_ Okay, you had your walk. Now put your feet up and do what your doctor says - give it time. It ain't going to happen overnight, kid .  
_   
Hardcastle turned and went back to his desk. He picked up one of the opened bills laying there and re-read it's letterhead - 'Whitebird Ambulance Services'. He stared at the date for a moment, then tossed it back on the small pile of other recent arrivals. It was hard to believe almost a month had passed; it seemed like only yesterday that McCormick had been stabbed four times and left for dead.

He'd been out with a girl on a date, their third together. Their evening ended, just before midnight, at the door of her garden apartment where they'd said good night. Twenty minutes later, as she was just about to climb into bed, someone began banging loudly on her door. A man out walking his dog had found McCormick on her front walk, sprawled in a pool of his own blood.

It wasn't difficult to find the man who'd done it - in fact he was delusional enough he hadn't even considered his door would be the first one the cops knocked on that night. He was the girl's previous boyfriend, someone who'd slowly come unhinged during their time together, enough that she'd finally left him in growing fear for her safety. After their break-up, he'd started to trail and menace her.

_ If she'd just thought to warn the kid what was going on . . .  
_  
Hardcastle shook himself free of that thought. _What's done is done_. McCormick had survived. His attacker was in a mental facility being assessed for trial. The young lady was hiding somewhere, hysterical with fear despite her ex-boyfriend's incarceration. Once McCormick had recovered enough to take calls she'd phoned him often from her retreat. The judge had been in the hospital room a few times when the kid had talked to her. He could tell, from McCormick's repeated assurances, that the conversations consisted mostly of high-strung and tearful litanies of apology. Eventually the calls lessened, and the judge was secretly relieved when they stopped altogether. Who needed it? The kid didn't.  
  
The judge pulled himself out of his reverie. He picked up a legal volume, opened it, and began slowly pacing the room as he searched for an elusive case. As he passed by the window he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. He stopped, took a step back and peered out. His face worked into a frown as he watched McCormick bend over the lawn mower, grasp the pull-cord and give it a long tug upwards. The too-little strength he put into the maneuver had no effect and he tried again - the mower remained silent. The kid dropped his chin to his chest in frustration, took a deep breath, and pulled, once more in vain.

_Now_ _what the hell? This morning he wants to clean gutters, yesterday it's scraping paint . . . If he wants to kill himself, I'm about ready to do the honors._

Hardcastle headed for the door. Outside, he took long strides across the lawn. "What do you think you're doing, McCormick?"

Mark glanced up. "I'm painting my toenails. What does it look like I'm doing?" More determined now that he'd been discovered, he willed his body to cooperate and yanked; the effort was clumsy and ineffectual. He let the cord recoil and was about to do it again when a hand landed on his arm.

"Enough," Hardcastle said. "Knock it off."

Mark shook his head ' no' and his words spilled out between short puffs of breath. "It's just being a pain again, Judge. I can do it."

"Uh uh." Hardcastle disagreed. He began to pull Mark's arm away, felt the kid stiffen with resistance, and his voice rose. "McCormick, I said to knock it off! Now let it go!"

The younger man let the rope fly noisily back into its slot. He slowly straightened to meet Hardcastle's contentious presence with his own irritation. "What's your problem? The grass needs cutting."

The older man hadn't missed the twinge of discomfort on the kid's face when he'd straightened and it only fueled his rising anger. "You know damned well Bob's crew is coming back tomorrow."

"It's supposed to rain tomorrow." 

"Yeah, so? One more day of growing and it'll blot out the sun?"

Mark screwed up his face in mild disgust and looked away. Hardcastle sighed heavily and his tone became more patient. "Listen, kid, you've got to slow it down. You're nowhere near a hundred percent and if you keep trying to push it, you're just gonna lose ground."

"I feel fine."

Hardcastle arched an eyebrow skeptically. "Sure you do. That's why you're sweating like a racehorse," he motioned toward the kid's hands, "and shakin' like a bowl of Jell-O."

Unaware until now that he looked as ragged as he felt, Mark jammed his hands into his jean pockets and mumbled, "It's hot out here." 

The judge's patience was short-lived. "Damn it, McCormick, do you have to argue, contradict and sidestep me every inch of the way? Do you want to get better or not?"

"That's a stupid question." 

"Not really, when you consider I'm asking somebody who, ever since he got back on his feet and could teeter a coupla' yards, has been trying to run a hundred!" He paused, expecting more protest, but Mark only stared sullenly back at him, so he delivered his coup d'grace through clenched teeth. "You want a job? Go sit by the pool and make sure nobody steals it."

They locked eyes for a long moment. Then it seemed all the air went out of the young man; his gaze fell away, he turned, and started slowly back to the gatehouse. As Hardcastle watched him go, he realized his small victory felt unpleasant and hollow. "Get some rest, kid." _Say something more, something that's not a goddamned command. _"I'm going to run into town soon on some errands. You need anything? . . . or do you wanna come?"

Without looking back, Mark just swatted an arm through the air.

Hours later, as the autumn sun began to drop and throw soft hues across the walls of his den, the judge sat quietly. His desktop was scattered with paperwork he'd meant to go through, but had ignored since he'd settled heavily into his chair. He hadn't seen the kid since getting back from town. He'd eaten dinner alone, looking over to the door a few times, expecting McCormick to walk through it, but he never did. The judge had chalked it up to one of three things, or maybe it was them all; the kid was sulking, was inevitably worn out by day's end and, more often than not lately, had little to no appetite. Though he might be feeling both a little guilty and helpless about the first two explanations, Hardcastle wasn't going to let the third slide. He checked his watch. 

_ All right, it's been an hour. Time's up, kiddo.  
_  
He rose and went to the kitchen. He grabbed a dish-towel off the counter and used it to pull the plate he'd readied earlier out of the still-warm oven. He lifted an edge of the foil to inspect the meal and, satisfied with it, found a fork and headed out the door.

He cautiously let himself into the gatehouse. Music from the stereo was playing lowly and Mark was sprawled on his couch, an old, thin blanket laying haphazardly across his legs. He looked asleep but when the judge cleared his throat he opened his eyes and turned his head toward the doorway.

Hardcastle smiled and raised the plate. "Dinner."

Mark slowly sat up and pushed the blanket aside.

"How're you doin'? Were you sleeping?" the judge asked as he crossed the room.

"No." Mark dragged a hand down his face. "Not really."

Hardcastle placed the meal on the coffee table in front of the couch and peeled off the foil. "Here ya go." He took the chair on the opposite side of the table, crossed his arms, and grinned. "Corned beef hash ala Hardcastle. Good for whatever ails ya."

Mark eyed the dark, steaming food. He didn't want anything; the thought of eating right now seemed like chewing on cardboard and swallowing it. But he knew it'd be an easier thing to do than grapple with the man sitting across from him, watching and waiting. He picked up the fork and began.

Not much later, when not quite half the meal was gone, he pushed the plate away. He leaned back on the couch and gave the other man a quick, thin smile. "Not bad, but I'm stuffed."

"Oh, you're gonna eat more than that. Get some more down your gullet." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Hardcastle cursed himself. The last thing he'd wanted to do when he came over was start riding the kid's back again - about anything. "Aw, forget it. I'll fill you up tomorrow."

Mark nodded absently and lowered his head. His fingers toyed with the fabric of his jeans; before long the fingers were still but his gaze remained on them.

As he watched him, Hardcastle was taken back to earlier in the day, when they'd argued about cutting the grass. When the kid had tried to stare him down. Just before he'd turned away, in the second before his eyes had dropped, Hardcastle had seen the unequivocal sadness in them. That sadness was back again, it seemed to fill the room, and the judge felt it begin to seep into his own bones. "What's wrong, kiddo?" he asked softly. 

The question seemed to draw Mark back from wherever he'd drifted, but he didn't reply.

"What're you thinking?" 

A pause, then, "That you're not a shrink."

_Hang tough, kid. This doesn't come natural for me either. "_I wanna know what's got you looking this way."

Mark shrugged in a weary, apologetic manner. "I feel useless."

The judge nodded slowly. "Useless is a pretty harsh word. You're out of commission for a while, on ice . . . through no fault of your own." he added. When that was met with silence, he said, "I don't get you, kid. When you're healthy, you gripe and bellyache nonstop about chores. Now I don't want you doing them and you're getting your shorts in a knot about it."

"I just want to hold up my end of the bargain."

"The bargain . . . our arrangement? You're worried about that?"

"Yeah, I am." Mark hesitated. "Judge, I'd never, ever take advantage or expect to just live off of you, you know."

He'd said it so deliberately, so wanting it to be understood, the judge put equal weight in his reply. "I know you wouldn't." His brow furrowed in confusion. "And I don't think that you are . . . . what are you getting at, kid?"

"Things change."

"Yeah, I guess they do. That's what . . ." He was cut off by Mark's sudden, urgent proclamation.

"I want to stay here." 

Hardcastle stared blankly at him. But, as the seconds passed, and with each ensuing breath he took, the older man's features turned dark and cold. "I thought we knew each other better, McCormick."

"Judge . . " 

Hardcastle leaned forward, gripped the arms of his chair, and growled, "You think I'm gonna punt you back over the fence just because you can't do the work around here? Is that it? What did I ever do to make you think I'd treat you like that? Huh? You tell me." 

"Nothing. You haven't done anything, I swear. It's just . . . " Mark faltered, then tore his eyes away.

"You'd better do some talking." 

A long moment slipped by before the young man said, with quiet conviction, "The other shoe always drops, Judge . . always."

"Shoe, gavel - you think I'll drop them all on ya?"

"No . . no, not you." Mark put his hands on his forehead and rubbed it hard. "Look, can we just leave it? I don't know what I'm trying to say and whatever it is, you're getting it all wrong anyway . . ." 

"Tell me what I've got wrong!" 

Mark's hands fell to his lap. "That I think of you that way! I don't, Judge, I never have."

He didn't know if it was the desperation in McCormick's voice or if it was what the voice in his own head had been insisting, but that instant Hardcastle knew the kid was telling the truth. As the anger quickly subsided, he looked about the room, his mind working. Finally he said, "Let's try my take on what this is about and . . . "

"I'm tired, Judge. I don't want to talk anymore," Mark cut in, and started to push off the couch. 

"Sit, McCormick," the judge ordered. "We're not done here. Yeah, I mean it . . . Sit."

Reluctantly, Mark sank back against the cushions. He fixed his eyes on the coffee table and waited.

Hardcastle studied him. _Don't blow it and let your mouth outflank your brain - again. Five minutes of barking at him isn't going to undo what years of experience drove in.  
_  
"You know, besides crooks," he started in a deep, level voice, "I've seen a lot of victims in my life, heard a lot of their stories. As much as _you_ might not want to admit it, getting attacked like you were can be devastating . . . at the very least it's unsettling as hell." 

"It wasn't that bad." Mark's response was almost a whisper. "I wasn't hurt that bad."

The judge remembered the late-night phone call, the doctor's somber expression as he approached him in the waiting room, and half-shut eyes trapped in pain and bewilderment. "It was bad enough, kid, believe me." he replied, almost as quietly. After a short silence, he continued. "Up till you were hurt you were getting along just fine - probably better than you'd been in a long time, right? Then, maybe a little late this time but sure as hell, things took a nose-dive.

"Your world's shifted and you don't want to admit to it. You've been fighting to keep everything just the way it was . . . and it's been kind of a losing battle, hasn't it?" His eyes crinkled with a fraction of a smile. 

Mark was staring intently at him now.

"Things change, like you said. But you gotta think, kid. You went through a real bad patch and came out the other side. And if you'd look around and see where you are, you'd know . . the worst is over." He paused. "Any more shoes that come plummeting outta the sky - or whatever the hell that metaphor's supposed to conjure up - they'll have to blow by me first."

The atmosphere between the two of them, so removed from the ordinary, and Mark's stillness, began to unnerve the judge. "You got that?" he demanded in a gruff, healthy volume.

Mark seemed to be still taking it in. "Yeah."

"Okay. Well, then . . " For a few seconds Hardcastle looked at a loss as to what to do next, then he slapped his knees and stood up. "I'm going back to the house and see what's on the tube. You comin'?"

"No . . . I think I'll just stay here."

The judge went to the side of the couch, put a hand on Mark's shoulder and squeezed it. "You gonna be okay?"

Without looking up, the young man nodded.

"Okay, kid." He went to the door and was about to open it when Mark's voice reached him.

"You're in bed and over your head, on the next floor, you hear the first one drop but not the other." 

Hardcastle turned around. "What?"

"So you're laying there, stuck on listening for it." Mark smiled at him. "The metaphor, Judge - that's what you're supposed to picture."

"Oh, right . . Who thinks up that crap anyway?"

"Probably the same guy who thinks swimming pools can be stolen."

Hardcastle's grin had a fiendish tilt to it. "When you're better you'll pay for that, McCormick. I've started a list, you know."

"Uh oh."

"And that's a promise, kid." _Between me and your Maker._

The End


End file.
